


What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more

by Diana_Prallon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kid Aithusa, Kid Fic, Kid Mordred, Other, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been years since Mordred had believed in Christmas Miracles – those were for children and the optimists, and he had long since stopped being either of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC; the title comes from Dr. Seuss's Grinch. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> I’ve taken some liberties with both prompts, but I hope it is acceptable and, well, good enough? My thanks to everyone that helped me out with this one.

Mordred was glad to be in his bed — it was warm and comfortable and he didn’t care if the darkness outside said it was already past midnight, he had no intention of leaving it anytime soon, even if he was usually up as soon as the clock said Christmas had started.

 

That was before.

 

When he believed in Santa Claus and Magic and Christmas Miracles.

 

When he was a child.

 

At eleven, Mordred was no longer a child, not for years now, he didn’t think. The memory of that last Christmas would haunt him forever — so innocent, so carefree, not knowing that was to come, how little time they had left to be a family. It was where the countdown started — two weeks, trickling so fast, until his mother was gone for good.

 

She had never wanted them to know she was sick, let alone how sick she really was. Christmas had been a full winter wonderland each year, the whole house shining with fairy lights, the lawn filled by snowmen and angels, made of plastic and real snow, all mixed together and decorating their pathway along with ivy and holly. She had always put a bundle of mistletoe over the kitchen’s door, so that whenever she or his dad came by it, they’d have to kiss. Mordred and his sister used to make disgusted noises at it.

 

It had been perfect.

 

 _Before_ , he had always been up at midnight of Christmas; trying to catch Santa leaving his present — but always too late, so late that the piles were already under the tree, and he — and later he and his sister — would steal one present for each, to open before morning came. It had been their tradition. Even _after_ , at Aunt Morgana’s house, they had done it; because she insisted and no one was silly enough to contradict Aunt Morgana.

 

Now, with his mother gone, there was no Christmas Joy anymore in their house. There wasn’t even a lawn to make a snowman, and no snow either. It had taken them just two weeks to move out, if it could be called that, camping for years on Aunt Morgana’s house. His father had needed almost three years to _really_ move out, out of the town that would always be haunted by the memory of her. Mordred had been happy to go live somewhere else, at first. Now he just thought their new house was too quietly, bitterly cold and Mordred’s dad was out working more often than not — as much as he had been since his mother had died. He tried, sure, to make time for them, but it just wasn’t the same.

 

It would never be the same.

 

So, no, Mordred didn’t want to leave his bed. He had plans of living under his duvet at least until it was time to leave for his Grandfather’s house, three towns over.

 

Naturally, it just meant he had no choice of doing it.

 

Mordred had barely had time to A. Notice it was Christmas B. Decide against getting up C. Started trying to get back to sleep when his sister rushed in and jumped on his bed.

 

“Gettout, ‘Thusa” he mumbled, but she paid him little notice, walking over his legs. “Ouch! Gettout!”

 

“Mordred, you _need_ to wake up,” she told him, her voice urgent, trying to pull his duvet away while Mordred gripped it as firmly as he could.

 

“I don’t care about Christmas anymore,” he told her, his voice bitter. “It’s for children.”

 

“It’s not!” she disagreed, and he was sure she was pouting as she let go of the duvet and Mordred used the opportunity to pull it over his head. “Come on, Mordred, you’ve got to see it!”

 

“What? Some unwrapped presents next to the fireplace?”

 

That was as much as he expected his father to do at this point, because it was clear to him that his mother’s death had killed Christmas for him. Neither aunt Morgana nor Uncle Leon had ever made it clear to him that they were the ones doing all the shopping and wrapping of presents, but his father’s eyes at it, surprised and even blushing a bit, had been more than enough clue.

 

Aithusa just huffed at his answer.

 

“ _No_!” she answered, finding the edge of his duvet again, and restarting their war. “You’ve _got to_  come, Santa’s here!”

 

That made Mordred snort under his covers. Aithusa was such a child still, even after their mother was gone, it was just… Too much to bear.

 

“Santa doesn’t exist,” he informed her. It was time — she was seven now, almost eight — but he was still glad he didn’t get to see her broken face, because he didn’t need one more thing haunting him.

 

“Well, then _who_ is downstairs kissing dad?” she asked, and _that_ got his attention.

 

Mordred stopped gripping his duvet, and suddenly his head was out of it’s protective fort, and the yellow light of his desk lamp was flooding the room. Aithusa was looking at his, her blue eyes huge, her skin as pale as usual, and her lips set in something that resembled a smirk — she clearly had spent too much time with aunt Morgana.

 

“What did you say?” he repeated, confused, because he couldn’t _possibly_ have heard it right.

 

“I saw daddy downstairs kissing Santa Claus!” she said, her voice excited and Mordred just stared, uncomprehending.

 

This made absolutely _zero_ sense — first because he _knew_ for a fact that Santa wasn’t real (and that, funnily enough, made it _less_ weird, because, _ew_ ); second because he _knew_ his father didn’t have any friends he’d ask to dress up, not here; and _third_ because _Santa was a man,_ which was a minor issue, of course, but he had _never_ had any reason to think that he had _any_ inclination towards, well, dating men.

 

Of course, it _could be_ a woman dressed up as Santa downstairs, but still _no friends_ which made it _really hard_ to find girlfriends.

 

Also, you know, Mordred had gone to sleep two hours before, and there had been _not a single reminder of Christmas_ downstairs.

 

He just blinked as his sister finished pulling out his duvet. The shock of the cold air against his skin made him start moving.

 

“You have to be wrong, Aithusa,” he told her, and she just grinned.

 

“No, _you_ are wrong and you _don_ _’t like it_ ,” she answered.

 

Mordred loved his aunt Morgana, he really did, but sometimes… Sometimes she was such a terrible influence.

 

He _knew_ she wouldn’t get out of his hair until he went there, so he sat on his bed, put on his slippers, and followed the excited girl out to the hallway. She was tiptoeing around, not making any noise, and Mordred didn’t _want_ to bother, but she shot him such a dark look when his first step made a floorboard creak that he complied with her unsaid request. Stopping at the top of the stairs, Aithusa put her finger against her lips, before crouching on the floor and peeking through the fairy lights decorated bannister’s bars. She needed but a quick glance before she looked at him, raising her eyebrows as if to say “I told you so”, and he gave in and did the same. He would need to get two steps under, and that meant he was more likely to be found, but he wasn’t sure he cared.

 

Because Aithusa, of course, had been right.

 

His father _was_ in the living room, kissing someone in a Santa Claus outfit — a _man_ in a Santa Claus outfit — and Mordred’s head was spinning. The whole living room had been transformed, a huge Christmas tree, lavishly decorated stood in the middle of it, with carefully wrapped presents under it. There were fairy lights everywhere and them, along with the lit fireplace  (stockings hanging from its mantel and all), were the only source of light inside the room. Santa’s arms came around his father’s neck, pulling him closer, and Mordred had the impression that his father was gripping the red clothing and the padding underneath it.

 

Whomever this man was, he had not bothered with padding his long thin legs, and at the end of it, shining in the dark, there were sneakers.

 

Mordred was stunned again, because he would recognise those sneakers anywhere. He and Aithusa had been commenting on them recently — their neighbour, Merlin, who was both a bit weird and really nice, had attached red and green led lights to his sneakers in honour of the holiday season. Aithusa had loved it, and started bugging for a similar pair, going as far as directly asking Merlin to make her some. His father had seemed long-suffering as he apologised, and Mordred had been torn between finding it ridiculous and awesome.

 

Their neighbour had brought Aithusa a brand new pair of sneakers, with a green Christmas tree and red lights for Christmas balls that he had made himself. He was, Mordred knew, some sort of designer or whatever. His sister had been thrilled, and their father hadn’t looked too happy — wrong-footed and awkward, so different from the smoothness of Pendragons. The two men had tried to make nice and failed, and snapped and prodded at each other — and then, it had been so funny to see, the way they were able to push each other’s buttons so well, to make each other go over the bend and make sharp fun of each other in a way he had thought he would never see again, because even with aunt Morgana his father had stopped doing it _since_ , and such a _relief_ in the way he had both laughed and sniggered, as if something was finally coming back from the person he used to be; jolted awake by Merlin’s accusations of him being like Scrooge.

 

Mordred had no idea of _how_ they had ended up like this — kissing, under the mistletoe, at midnight on Christmas Day, but he honestly didn’t care. He didn’t even know what to think. It was just… Too much, too confusing. He just nudged Aithusa and pointed with his head towards the second floor.

 

“Let’s go,” he mouthed, no sound coming out, and she gave him a silent nod.

 

Mordred wanted nothing more than he wanted to just go to sleep and ignore the whole thing but, of course, Aithusa had other plans and came along to his bedroom, sneaking in his bed and under the covers, and Mordred knew that nothing would make her leave. With a sigh, he just laid down next to her. Aithusa got closer to him, curling around his body, and he felt comforted without even knowing he needed to be comforted.

 

It was just — he had been _so disappointed_ — at his dad for all of it; for forgetting all about Christmas, for making him forget it too and then having the whole house decorated (though Mordred didn’t _know_ if he had asked for it or if Merlin had just broken in and done the whole thing, because it _really_ seemed like something Merlin would do), for _moving on,_ for… So many things he didn’t even know how to explain — but, basically, for being _exactly like his father_ when he had always said he never wanted to be like him.

 

Then his sister poked him a bit, snuggling closer, before muttering, her voice sleepy.

 

“Maybe Santa was giving him is present too”.

 

Mordred’s heart was filled with warmth — with so much love, and even something akin to optimism, because maybe she was _right_.

 

“Maybe he was,” he agreed, snuggling closer to her.

 

For the first time in three years, Mordred was able to start Christmas with something that was worth more than all presents put together: hope — hope that his father wasn’t too broken, that they weren’t _all_ too broken, and that better, brighter days were to come, their pieces being glued back together with sheer enthusiasm and huge smiles.

 

Maybe they would be okay after all.

 

(And, as the days passed them by, weeks and months and years, all their wishes coming through — not easily, but surely — through the weird, weird, magic in that particular Santa Claus, so ready to patch them up and love their imperfections, Mordred learnt to believe again in Christmas Miracles).


End file.
